And Then She Fell

chapter Seven



James left London early in the afternoon. Driving his curricle, he reached Ellsmere Grange in good time. After greeting his hosts, Lord and Lady Ellsmere, friends of his parents, and being shown to his room, he descended to the drawing room to lounge and chat with the other guests who had already assembled.

Miss Violet Ellsmere, the daughter of the house, had recently become engaged to Viscount Channing. James and Channing had known each other for years; James duly ribbed Channing over his soon-to-be lost freedom, which, James noted, Channing bore with the smugness of a well-satisfied cat.

Which only made James all the more restless as he prowled the gathering while constantly keeping one eye on the forecourt.

Finally, a black carriage rolled up the drive—the right black carriage; James recognized the Cynsters’ coachman. By the time the coach rocked to a halt on the fine gravel of the forecourt, James was stepping off the porch, waving the footman back as he reached for the carriage door.

He swung it open. Henrietta blinked at him, then smiled. Happily. She was clearly suffering no ill effects from their morning’s excitement.

Extending her hand, she let him help her down. “Thank you.” When he offered his arm, with a laughing smile, she twined her arm in his. “Are you intending to monopolize me?”

He smiled back. “Why else do you imagine I came?”

Her soft laughter made him smile even more as he led her into the house.

She went through the usual process of greetings, then Violet escorted her upstairs to the room she’d been assigned, but soon enough they both returned, rejoining James and Channing in the drawing room.

The four of them sat and chatted while the rest of the company ebbed and flowed around them. Afternoon tea came, was consumed to the last tasty crumb, then they settled to an exchange of the latest ton stories.

Guests continued to arrive; by the time the dressing gong resonated through the house, James had counted twenty guests, not including their hosts, Violet, and Channing. All those lounging in the drawing room rose and, in couples and groups, headed up the stairs.

James ambled beside Henrietta, and thus discovered that the room she’d been given lay down the corridor to the left of the main stairs, three doors along on the right. After seeing her to her door, he walked briskly back through the gallery and on to the room he’d been given toward the end of the opposite wing.

While he washed and changed, he considered what they might make of the evening and decided they would have to play it by ear. While on the one hand he wanted to press ahead and secure Henrietta as his bride—and that compulsion had grown only more powerful in the aftermath of the incident that morning—simultaneously he was conscious of a fundamental desire to give her all and everything a young lady might wish for, including all she might wish for in a courtship.

“We have two full days,” he muttered to himself, chin raised as he tied his cravat. Even though it was essential that they marry before the first of the coming month, he still had twenty-five days in hand. “She’ll want some time to enjoy our engagement before we face the altar, but . . . we can afford at least a few days wooing. No need to rush.” No need to shortchange her just because he was in a hurry and had an inflexible schedule.

With that resolution firmly fixed in his mind, he descended the stairs and strode to the drawing room. It was inhabited only by males; no ladies had yet made an appearance. Joining Channing, Percy Smythe, and Giles Kendall, James was quickly drawn into a discussion of that perennial topic of male regard—horses.

Five minutes later, Rafe Cunningham walked into the room. He glanced around, hesitated, then walked over to join James and the others.

“What-ho, old boy!” Channing shook Rafe’s hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Rafe shrugged lightly. “Lady Ellsmere’s my godmother.” Rafe glanced at James and nodded. “Glossup.”

James nodded back, wondering if he was correct in detecting a note of restrained animosity in Rafe’s deep voice . . . and if Miss Fotherby numbered among her ladyship’s guests. James hadn’t seen her earlier, but he hadn’t seen Rafe, either.

Eventually the ladies started drifting in. James was rather pleased when, upon his leaving the group to join Henrietta, she met him halfway. They shared a private smile, then together turned to engage with other guests; standing side by side, they chatted with Miss Finlayson and Miss Moffat, and were soon joined by Channing and Violet.

Miss Fotherby, James noted, joined the gathering a bare minute before they were due to dine. Even more telling, on stepping into the drawing room, Miss Fotherby looked swiftly around, saw Rafe Cunningham watching her from across the large room, and froze. For an instant, she looked like a deer poised to leap and race from a hunter, but then she stiffly looked away and, her features set and pale, walked across to speak with Lady Ellsmere.

Henrietta had noticed Miss Fotherby, too. She glanced at James, arched a brow.

Before he could reply, her ladyship’s butler appeared to announce that dinner was served. Lady Ellsmere commanded their attention and told them the seating would remain informal for the duration of their stay, and recommended they oblige her and find their own partners. Everyone laughed, very happy to do so—except for Miss Fotherby, but Robert Sinclair was standing beside her and offered his arm, and she quickly accepted his escort.

With Henrietta on his arm, James dipped his head to whisper, “As she’s here, I believe it would be wise for me to tell Miss Fotherby of my decision regarding her . . . ah, application as soon as may be.”

Watching the byplay between Miss Fotherby and Rafe Cunningham, even though both were partnered with others, Henrietta nodded. “Be that as it may, I think tomorrow morning will be the earliest you’ll be able to do so. If this event runs along customary lines, we’ll have music or charades after dinner tonight.”

James inclined his head in acceptance.

Once seated beside him at the long table, Henrietta found herself enjoying the gathering more than she’d anticipated—certainly more than she had previously enjoyed such events. She’d attended innumerable house parties through the years, but she had never before had . . . a focus. A locus for her attention, a pivot about which she could circle. That, she realized, with a swift glance at James, currently chatting with Violet on his other side, was what was different. James’s presence widened her experience of everything about her; the conversations, the sallies, the quick quips and repartee all seemed sharper, more engaging, when viewed through the expanded prism of his likely reactions as well as hers.

In the sense of scope, he opened her eyes. Never before had she viewed the world about her and considered how it might appear to, or might impact on, another.

That, she supposed, smiling and shifting so she could better hear something Miss Hendricks wished to impart to her, was what forming a relationship was all about; learning and empathizing with the feelings of one’s other. Presumably that was what the affectionate tag “the other half” implied.

She was glad they’d agreed to include the Ellsmeres’ house party on their schedule of useful events. Even though their quest might have been superseded, this was the perfect setting for her and James to spend time together, to get to know each other better out of the hothouse environment of the ton’s ballrooms. Here, they would have time to ramble and talk without constraint or reserve, or the ever-present threat of interruption. As the covers were drawn and the company all rose, she realized she was looking forward to the next days with unalloyed expectation.

As she’d foreseen, at Lady Ellsmere’s direction the entire company repaired to the large music room on the other side of the old mansion. There, they passed an enjoyable few hours entertaining each other with ballads and song. Miss Fotherby was one of the first to take her seat at the pianoforte; she sang a ballad in a piercingly sweet voice. A few performances later, Rafe Cunningham sang, accompanied by Miss Findlayson; his baritone was rich and powerful, and held them all spellbound. Then Giles Kendall joined Rafe, singing tenor to Rafe’s baritone, in what was quite certainly the most riveting performance of the evening. Somewhat later, Henrietta played the pianoforte and sang a sweet country song, followed by a duet with James, then Violet and Channing joined them for a rousing rendition of an old shepherd’s song, a long and repetitive, subtly jocular composition of chorus and verses of extraordinary length.

She was out of breath, and so were the other three, by the time she played the last resounding chord. The audience gave them a standing ovation, then Lady Ellsmere called for tea.

Finally the evening ended, and in loose groups, the guests made their way down the corridors and up the stairs. Ascending the stairs beside James, Henrietta smiled at him and murmured, “I’d completely forgotten the brouhaha of this morning.”

His eyes met hers. “No lingering effects?”

She shook her head. “None. I’m quite recovered, and this evening has been . . . the right sort of distraction.”

“Good.” They stepped into the gallery at the top of the stairs. James hesitated. The ladies were wandering off in twos and threes down the corridor to the left, while all the males had been housed in the opposite wing. Reaching for Henrietta’s hand, trapping her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips and lightly kissed. “In that case, I’ll wish you a good night’s rest. Sleep well.”

She smiled brilliantly, lightly gripped his fingers, then drew her hand free. “You, too.” She held his gaze for an instant, then inclined her head and turned away. “Good night.”

He watched her walk away, then followed the other gentlemen down the corridor into the other wing. Just before he reached his door, he sensed someone watching him, felt the weight of their gaze on his back. Halting before his door, grasping the knob, he glanced up the corridor.

Rafe Cunningham stood in a doorway back along the corridor, watching him.

The light was too dim to make out Rafe’s expression, but if James had to guess, he would have said that confusion dominated. Rafe, he realized, must have seen him part from Henrietta.

Opening his door, James went in and shut it. He paused, wondering if he should speak with Rafe now and put the poor devil out of his misery, at least with respect to James’s intentions toward Miss Fotherby, which, from Rafe’s reactions, Rafe at least partly knew, or rather, thought he did.

James considered, but the certainty of what Henrietta would say if he asked whether he should speak with Rafe decided the matter. She would say he should speak with Miss Fotherby first, then leave it to Millicent to decide what to tell Rafe.

Shrugging off his coat, James thought through the likely scenarios and decided that, after he’d told Millicent, if Rafe asked him directly he would tell Rafe, too. Rafe had the devil of a right hook. Explaining a black eye to Lady Ellsmere, let alone Henrietta, wasn’t a scenario he wished to face.

As he slid beneath the sheets, his comprehension of and empathy for Rafe’s situation shifted into a review of his own. On the one hand he wanted to give Henrietta all he could by way of courtship. She was twenty-nine; to his mind, she’d waited for him to come along, and he was abjectly grateful that she had, so it was only fair that he do his level best to woo her properly.

But simultaneously he wanted to speak; for him, the fright of the morning hadn’t subsided but rather had transmogrified, adding to an unexpected compulsion to say something aloud, to stake a verbal claim. Even though he knew it was too early for a full-scale declaration, for some unfathomable reason his wolfish instincts had turned on him and were hotly urging him to make, at the very least, a statement of intent.

Why it was so important to his inner self that he tell Henrietta in plain English that he wanted her for his bride he didn’t know. Settling to sleep, he closed his eyes—and wondered for how long he could stand against his surging inner tide.

Breakfast the next morning was a leisurely affair. Guests drifted downstairs and into the dining room from eight o’clock onward. The sideboard along one wall played host to an array of silver platters and chafing dishes offering everything from boiled eggs and bacon, to sausages, kedgeree, and a dish of boiled mutton, ham, and celery said to be a local delicacy.

James arrived reasonably early, helped himself to a selection of viands, then pulled out a chair midway down the long table. Settling next to Channing, he joined the discussion already raging between Percy Smythe and Dickie Arbiter over which company made the best pistols in this modern age. Dickie was all for the latest American guns, while Percy expounded the virtues of the English makers.

When appealed to, James admitted to the attraction of the new American mechanisms but, on balance, gave his vote to the English makers, “Purely on aesthetics.” He looked at Dickie. “Have you seen one of their guns?”

Percy chuckled, while Channing erupted with his usual barking laugh.

Others arrived, and then Henrietta appeared, along with Miss Hendricks and Violet. They were the first of the female contingent to arrive, but other ladies quickly followed, and with their higher-pitched voices, the conversations changed in sound, tone, and subject.

James kept his eye on Henrietta as she progressed along the sideboard; in a golden-yellow walking gown she looked like summer sunshine to him. When she turned to the table, he immediately rose and drew out the chair beside him. With a smile, she accepted the unvoiced invitation and let him seat her. Channing had also risen and held the chair on his other side for Violet, while on the opposite side of the table Percy performed the same service for Miss Hendricks.

The ladies settled, and the talk turned to the one subject in which they all had an interest, namely what had been planned for the rest of the day.

“We’d thought to have a morning around the house—a croquet competition for those up to the challenge, with billiards for those gentlemen who would prefer it, and there’s the library or the gardens for the ladies should they not wish to join those on the croquet lawn.” As daughter of the house, Violet had been intimately involved in formulating the schedule. “And after lunch, we thought a ramble through the woods to the ruins would be nice.”

“Ruins?” Both Miss Hendricks and Dickie Arbiter spoke the word simultaneously. They shared an arrested glance, then looked at Violet for further edification.

“They’re the ruins of the original priory that the grange was attached to,” Violet explained. “They’re very old—no one knows how old, but old enough that they’re half-buried. Not that we have to go into caves, or anything difficult—what we call the ruins are the walls and columns and altars and so forth that are exposed on the side of a hill. Goodness knows how much more of the original buildings are still buried beneath the hillside, but many of the walls are covered with moss and have ivy trailing over them.” Violet smiled at Miss Hendricks. “Very atmospheric.”

“The woods are old, too,” Channing put in. “Huge old oak trees, that sort of thing. Easy to walk beneath, and the path to the ruins is relatively flat.” He glanced up the table to where Lady Ellsmere and several friends of her generation sat breaking their fast and gossiping. “Even the older ladies would have no great difficulty reaching it, but it is a few miles away—it’ll take us half an hour to stroll there, and another half hour back, so I’m not sure they’ll want to waste the time.”

Miss Hendricks looked positively enthused. “It sounds like a delightful excursion.”

“Hmm.” Dickie caught Miss Hendricks’s eye. “I’m rather fond of old places. I, for one, will join the party for the ruins.”

All their group voiced their intention to join the ramble, then Violet went on, “And this evening, as I’m sure you’ve all anticipated, there’s to be a ball. Not a massive affair—we want to keep it a touch more relaxed. We’re not in London, after all. But there will be musicians, so lots of dancing, and a few of our neighbors will be joining us, so there’ll be several more people to meet.”

“Excellent!” Percy beamed. “Sounds like my sort of day.”

As Percy was an acknowledged social gadabout, everyone laughed and agreed.

They’d all finished their breakfasts. Together, they rose, the ladies gliding to the doors that opened to the sunlight terrace, the gentlemen sauntering behind.

Pausing to let Violet lead the way onto the terrace, Henrietta glanced at those still seated about the table. Miss Fotherby was sitting with Miss Findlayson and Miss Moffat, both of whom were gaily chattering, but Miss Fortherby had a hunted air. As Henrietta watched, Miss Fotherby darted a glance down the table to where Rafe Cunningham sat beside Giles Kendall. Rafe wasn’t even pretending to listen to Giles or Robert Sinclair, seated opposite; he was watching Miss Fotherby.

As James joined her, Henrietta flashed him a smile, turned, and walked out onto the terrace. She hadn’t been surprised to discover Rafe among the guests; she’d known of the connection with the Ellsmeres. Miss Fotherby, however, had looked shocked, almost stricken to discover Rafe there. From what Henrietta had gathered, Miss Fotherby’s aunt, who had been among the older ladies seated with Lady Ellsmere, was an old friend of her ladyship’s . . . which suggested that Miss Fotherby had been inveigled to attend, and both her aunt and Lady Ellsmere were playing matchmaker.

Which suggested that neither older lady knew of Miss Fotherby’s offer to James.

They’d fallen into a loose group, strolling together in the mild morning sunshine. Reaching the steps leading down to a small parterre, Channing offered Violet his arm. She took it and they descended. James promptly offered Henrietta his arm. Placing her hand on his sleeve, she accepted his support down the steep steps.

And wondered if she should ask him what he planned regarding Miss Fotherby.

Courtesy of the incident with Marie, she and he hadn’t talked—hadn’t yet shared their thoughts on how each saw what was evolving between them. But clearly Miss Fotherby needed an answer—she had even requested one within a few days—and was there any reason, any justification, not to tell her how matters now stood?

Henrietta pondered that as they ambled along, into the rose garden and out again; she breathed in the fresh air, smiled and laughed with the others, and eventually decided she wouldn’t yet prod. James knew how matters stood, and only he could give Miss Fotherby her answer.

They eventually found their way to the croquet lawn. The sun had risen enough to dry the grass, and they quickly set out the hoops and pegs, and distributed the mallets. Then came the matter of deciding teams and the terms of the competition. In the end, they agreed to play in couples, in a round-robin style of tournament. No one really cared whether or not they had time to complete the rounds, or, indeed, who won; it was all about fun and their enjoyment of the play.

Nearly an hour had passed, and most of the younger ladies and gentlemen had gravitated to the croquet lawn and joined the competition, and the older ladies had come out to sit on garden chairs in the shade of the nearby trees to watch and smile approvingly, when James, standing to one side with Henrietta, waiting for their next match, saw Miss Fotherby—whom Rafe had earlier attempted to solicit as his partner, but who had all but seized Giles Kendall instead—walking swiftly along the edge of the lawn, head down, coming his and Henrietta’s way.

James waited until Miss Fotherby neared, then said, “Miss Fotherby?” When, startled, she halted and looked up, he smiled easily. “I wonder if I might have a word?” He glanced around, drawing her attention to the fact that, at that moment, the three of them were out of earshot of everyone else.

Miss Fotherby drew in a tight breath and nodded. “Yes. Of course.” But her expression remained haunted; she glanced constantly around and appeared thoroughly distracted.

James inwardly frowned; he sensed that Henrietta, standing beside him with her hands crossed over the handle of her mallet, was also puzzled by Miss Fotherby’s response. “About the suggestion you made on Lady Hollingworth’s terrace.”

Miss Fotherby’s head swung his way and she stared—as if only just remembering. As if the matter had slipped entirely from her mind. “Oh—ah, yes.” She colored faintly. “That is . . .”

He felt even more compelled to speak, simply to end the tangle the situation seemed to have become. “I’ve decided that my affections lie elsewhere, something I hadn’t realized then. I must thank you for your suggestion, but I am no longer searching for a . . . convenient bride.”

Miss Fotherby blinked, then her gaze seemed to focus. She looked at James as if finally truly seeing him, then she glanced at Henrietta, and her lips quirked in a fleeting smile. She dipped her head. “Indeed. I must thank you for speaking so plainly, and while you might not believe me, I sincerely wish you well.”

But she was already turning away. “And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Without waiting for any reply, with a vague nod she continued on her way.

“Well!” Bemused, Henrietta watched Miss Fotherby stride off. “I must say that wasn’t at all what I expected.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” James had spotted Rafe Cunningham stalking along the opposite side of the croquet lawn. “I suspect Miss Fotherby is feeling somewhat besieged at the moment.”

Henrietta had followed his gaze. She humphed. “Goodness knows where that will end.”

“Well,” James said, turning to her with a smile, “that’s entirely in their hands now, and no longer a concern of ours. Which, I admit, feels like a weight off my shoulders.”

“Glossup—Miss Cynster!” From the starting peg, Channing beckoned. “You’re up.”

Saluting in reply, Henrietta lifted her mallet and walked with James down the side of the lawn. “We’re never going to get a moment to talk, not while we’re here, are we?”

James smiled. “I doubt it. But we have time enough to simply take these few days as they come, and just enjoy them.” He caught her eye. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”

She arched her brows. “I suppose you’re right.” Looking ahead, she swung her mallet experimentally. “All right then—let’s see if we can defeat Dickie and Miss Hendricks.”

With a laugh, James waved her on.

As anyone might have predicted, the ringing of the luncheon bell resulted in the croquet competition being declared incomplete and unresolved, and the company retired to the dining room for a rowdy luncheon, during which all those involved relived their exploits and aired their opinions on who would eventually have won.

After luncheon, a half hour passed while the ladies retreated to their rooms to don bonnets, spencers, and shawls, then the party foregathered on the terrace and set out in good order, Violet and Channing in the lead, to walk to the ruins in the woods.

Such a country ramble was standard fare for any well-run house party. Even the older ladies and gentlemen joined in, although all of the older generation parted company with the rest when they reached the lake. Those younger continued on into the woods, while their elders took a much less strenuous stroll around the lake and so back to the house.

The path through the woods cut a wide, wending swath beneath the spreading branches of the old oak trees. The crumbling detritus of last autumn’s leaves lay thick on the ground; although sunshine slanted through the boughs and the air was a warm kiss, winter dampness still lingered in the heavier shade to right and left, the rich loamy smell of decaying drifts mingling with the crisp scent of new growth. Moss grew in a green carpet along the banks, cushioning the gray of the local stone that showed through here and there.

As Channing had said, the path was even, a very gentle downward slope leading them, somewhat deceptively, deeper and deeper into the old woods. The line of ramblers stretched out as they fell into groups, chatting as they walked. Topics were inconsequential; various guests stopped to point out a bird flitting through the branches, or to examine a fern, and gradually the group devolved into couples ambling companionably.

A full half hour had elapsed before Violet and Channing led them around a curve in the path, and the ruins rose all around them. Coming up behind their friends, Henrietta and James both stared, eyes widening as they raised their gazes to the tops of the high stone walls, mottled and pocked with mosses and lichens, and draped with encroaching creepers, then looked further, gazes sweeping over a wide expanse filled with the remnants of tumbled-down walls.

Henrietta slipped her hand onto James’s sleeve; the chill of the shadows—and doubtless all that looming rock—sent a shiver through her, and she shifted closer, nearer to James’s warmth.

He turned his head and smiled, closing his hand over hers on his sleeve, then he looked past her and drew her on, to the side, as others of the party rounded the curve and, as they had, stopped to stare.

“It’s a sight worth gawping over,” Henrietta murmured, looking again at the columns and the curves of arches that rose, skeletal memories of grandeur, here and there among the walls. After a moment, she said, “Come on. Let’s explore.”

They did, as did all the others. They paced around long-forgotten cloisters and strolled down stone-paved corridors now open to the sky. Navigating through what, from the arches distinguishing it, appeared to be the old priory church was an exercise in slipping between massive carved rectangular stones strewn like children’s blocks by some giant’s hand.

James and Giles met on what both agreed had to be the front porch of the church. Both stood and looked around while Henrietta, picking her way through the ruined nave, and Miss Findlayson, clambering up from below, joined them.

“I’d take my oath,” Giles said, pausing to give Miss Findlayson his hand up the last steep step, “that when they built this place, that hill”—releasing Miss Findlayson with a smile, he turned to survey the hill behind them, the one the ruins appeared to be built into the side of—“wasn’t there.”

Hands on his hips, James nodded. “I agree. That wall”—he pointed to a wall at the rear of the ruins, the top of which showed just above the hillside as if it were a retaining wall holding back the mass of the hill—“looks to be the central wall of the main priory building, the building that would have housed the dormitories and living quarters. See?” He pointed to the rim of the wall. “Those are capstones, so that was the top of the wall.” Lowering his arm, he looked around once more. “And Violet was right—this appears to be only half the priory. The rest, presumably, lies beyond the main building—beyond that wall and now buried under the hill.”

Giles was nodding. “So the hill couldn’t have been there, not back when this place was in use.”

Scanning the wall in question, Henrietta said, “I know it’s been centuries since the priory was inhabited, but I wonder how and why the hill came to form there?”

They speculated at length—given the age of the trees growing over the hill and in some places overhanging the top of the wall, some act of disrespect at the time of the Dissolution became their favored theory—then James and Henrietta parted from Giles and Miss Findlayson and plunged back into the maze of ruined walls, making their way to the rear of the ruins, to what James had hypothesized had been the central wall of the main building.

“If we look closely, there should be a pattern of rooms lying on this side of the wall.” He gave Henrietta his hand to help her over a fallen rock.

They enjoyed themselves, with a certain sense of triumph discovering the remains of long-ago rooms, tracing the outlines, comparing each room’s relationship to the main wall and the other rooms, and speculating as to what each room might have been used for. The sun’s rays were angling through the surrounding trees when the sudden sound of voices—not chatting but arguing violently—reached them.

A gentleman’s voice and a lady’s voice.

James looked at Henrietta; she’d heard them, too. Quietly, he walked a short distance along the corridor to where an archway allowed him a restricted view into the next section of the ruins.

He halted abruptly, then held still, looking out at the vignette framed by the ancient stone.

Silently, Henrietta glided up and stopped beside him; placing her hand on his arm, she looked out, too.

Rafe Cunningham had finally cornered Millicent Fotherby. He was arguing . . . or was it pleading? James and Henrietta could hear the voices, the tones, but not the words. Millicent was wringing her hands and shaking her head; her expression stated she wasn’t going to be moved, no matter the violence of Rafe’s feelings.

Abruptly, Rafe threw his hands to the sky, then looked down at Millicent.

And Millicent finally spoke. Whatever she said, it struck Rafe like a blow—James and Henrietta saw the jerk of his spine, the jolt of his head.

But then Rafe shook his head and growled—one word of utter denial.

And swept Millicent into his arms and kissed her.

James tensed—he couldn’t allow Rafe to assault Millicent—but Henrietta’s fingers curled in his sleeve. “Wait!” she whispered.

James wondered what he was supposed to wait for . . . but then Millicent’s arms, at first lax by her sides, slowly rose. And tentatively, so gently and warily it was difficult to watch, she raised her arms and her hands stole up to Rafe’s shoulders, then slowly slid to cup his nape.

And Millicent was kissing Rafe back.

James relaxed. “Ah.”

After a moment—long enough to confirm that Millicent wasn’t about to change her mind—he turned away. Catching Henrietta’s hand in his, he met her eyes and grinned. Then he lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingers, and they headed back along the corridor. “Where were we?” he murmured.

Henrietta glanced around. “About here, wasn’t it?”

“Halloo!”

The call rang out from the front of the ruins.

It was Channing. He yelled, “Come on, you lot—time to start back.”

Calls came from various places, most a great deal closer to the path than James and Henrietta. James looked at Henrietta, then raised his voice. “Channing—you and the others start back. Miss Cynster and I will follow as quickly as we can.”

“Right-ho! Don’t dally, mind—we all have to get ready for dinner and the ball.”

“We’re on our way!” James yelled back. Smiling, he took Henrietta’s arm, twining it with his, and they started back, following the long corridor that ran along the old wall, their fastest route back to where the path entered the ruins.

That said, they saw no reason to hurry; they ambled along, pausing so Henrietta could study the tiny ferns sprouting from the fissures in the wall.

They’d been virtually on the other side of the ruins from the path; they’d traveled about half the distance back when a sharp crack sounded, emanating from behind them, from the general area in which Rafe and Millicent Fotherby had been. James halted and, releasing Henrietta, turned.

Henrietta halted, too. They both looked back, but saw nothing. She pressed his arm. “Go and look—just in case. We should make sure they’re returning as well—they didn’t reply to Channing.”

Which gave him an excuse if Rafe and Miss Fotherby spotted him. James nodded and retraced his steps.

He was almost back to the archway when Rafe stepped through it into the corridor, with Millicent on his arm.

“Ah, there you are.” James halted. “I heard a crack.”

Rafe nodded. “A rock fell.” He looked down the corridor toward Henrietta. “This seemed the fastest way back to the path.”

“We thought the same.” James turned back to Henrietta.

A grating sound dragged his gaze upward.

Dust, then fine stones rained down from the top of the wall above Henrietta.

A massive capstone, five feet long and at least two feet high and deep, shifted, tipped, then fell.

Henrietta had looked up, but dust had got in her eyes and she’d looked down again. She hadn’t seen the stone falling.

James opened his mouth, but panic locked his lungs.

Then he was running.

Boots striking the corridor’s floor, legs pumping hard, eyes tracking the falling capstone, he raced—and knew he wouldn’t be in time.

Desperate, he summoned every ounce of his strength—and flung himself forward.

He hit Henrietta, caught her—held her to him, protecting her as best he could as his flying tackle carried them several feet down the corridor and onto the ground.

They landed, skidding, in a tumble of clinging limbs.

The horrendous whump-thud of the stone smashing down physically jarred them.

Silence—shocking and absolute—fell over the scene.

Then, somewhere, a blackbird trilled.

Slowly assimilating that they were still alive, they cautiously raised their heads and looked back down the corridor. Henrietta clung to James and he to her. They stared, disbelieving, at the fate that had nearly been hers.

No, nearly theirs; the capstone lay embedded in the floor mere inches from James’s boots. The stone had cracked on impact, blocking the corridor and hiding them from the others.

Henrietta could barely breathe. Her heart was thudding so heavily that she wasn’t sure she could hear.

Turning her head, she met James’s eyes.

A smothered cry reached them, then Rafe scrambled onto the fallen stone.

The instant he saw them, he stopped, stared, then his shoulders sagged and he blew out a breath. “My God! I thought you were both done for.”

Millicent scrambled up beside him, looked, then clapped a hand to her chest. “Thank heaven you’re all right!” Then she seemed to collect herself. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

James slowly sat up, then helped Henrietta to sit up, too. He met her eyes, then replied, “Apparently.”

Rafe dropped over the stone, helped Millicent down, then, his expression grim, turned to James. “I saw it all—that stone didn’t just fall.” He held out his hand and, when James grasped it, pulled him to his feet.

Rushing to help Henrietta up, Millicent glanced sharply at Rafe. “Nonsense! How can you suggest such a thing? It had to have been an accident. The stone must have been loose and something nudged it the last little way.”

Rafe snorted. “Something like what? A clan of badgers acting in concert wouldn’t have been able to dislodge that stone.”

James knew that was true, but he held up a hand to stay further argument. “Regardless of how it happened, let’s get moving.” Meeting Rafe’s eyes, he flicked his own upward. There are more stones up there.

Rafe shut his lips and nodded. “Right. Let’s get on.”

Henrietta and Millicent brushed and straightened Henrietta’s walking dress while James vaguely dusted off his coat and breeches, then, with Millicent walking beside Henrietta and Rafe and James hovering close, glancing up and around frequently, they walked on.

Millicent, Henrietta noted, was wringing her hands again and was understandably wide-eyed, nervy and ready to jump at the least little noise. Henrietta suspected she should feel the same, but . . . she decided she must be in shock. She was simply too glad to be alive, glad to be able to breathe, to be able to glance along her shoulder and see James walking close beside her.

After being nearly squashed to death, being alive felt too good. She would worry about what had happened later, now that she was sure she would have a later.

They found the path and started along it, but a few yards on, James halted. When the others stopped, too, and faced him, he briefly studied Henrietta’s eyes, then looked at Millicent. “Why don’t you two ladies sit on the bank here and catch your breaths? I want to take a quick look at the spot from where the stone fell, just in case the hillside there is crumbling and we need to warn the Ellsmeres.”

Rafe nodded. “Sound idea. I’ll come with you.”

Henrietta might not have wanted to think too hard about how she had nearly died, but she wasn’t having that. “No.” She glanced at Millicent and saw her own resolution reflected in Millicent’s brown eyes. Looking back at James, she stated, “We’re coming, too.”

James hesitated, but, truth be told, he’d rather have Henrietta with him. “Very well.” He reached for her hand, turned, helped her clamber up the bank, then led her steadily on, onto the hill overlooking the ruins.

Rafe and Millicent climbed up behind them.

They found the wall and followed it along—to the gap where the lighter hue of the stone on either side identified the original position of the recently fallen capstone.

Halting in a semicircle around the spot, they stared silently down at the evidence imprinted in the soft moss growing in the lee of the top of the wall. It wasn’t hard to guess what had caused the capstone to fall.

Crouching, Rafe examined the smeared tracks left by a man’s large boots. After a moment, he grunted. “He slipped too much to be able to guess the size.”

“But,” James said, forcing his voice to remain calm and even, “it wasn’t a work boot.” He glanced at his own feet, then at Rafe’s. “Something more like riding boots.”

Rising, Rafe nodded, his face grim. He met James’s gaze, then waved down the hill. “We’d better get on, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

Subdued, each a prey to disquieting thoughts, they made their way back to the path and set off to return to the house.